Lightning Strikes
by Emily North
Summary: It’s no use knowing what you want when it’s something you can’t have. (BZHG)
1. Section 1

Title: Lightning Strikes  
Author: Emily  
Pairing: Blaise/Hermione  
Rating: PG-13  
Dedication: To the glorious, fascinating, endlessly wonderful Inell. Happy anniversary, darling, and may there be many more to come!  
Disclaimer: They all belong to JKR, alas...  
Distribution: IATQO archive and If anyone else wants it, just let me know. I always say yes!  
Spoilers: Includes definite spoilers for OotP. Read at your own risk.  
Summary: It's no use knowing what you want when it's something you can't have.

Section 1:  
  
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled through the treetops, rattling against the shutters, and creeping through every crack and crevice of the battered old house. The girl seated on the sofa in front of the fireplace shivered and tightened the blanket around her shoulders, wondering why the house always felt so much colder on stormy nights when she was there all alone. For a moment, she debated going to her room... but no, she wouldn't let a little chill drive her away from the firelight and her book.  
  
She determinedly tightened the blanket a bit more, and returned her focus to the book in front of her, willfully ignoring the ominous chill that permeated the air around her, and clearly unaware, in the noise of the storm and the uncertain light of the fire, that she was not alone. The room where she sat was oddly shaped, with far too many nooks and crannies hidden in the shadows away from the flickering firelight, hiding the dark figure who watched her silently for several long moments before beginning his slow approach.  
  
His footsteps were silent on the carpeted floor, and not so much as an audible breath betrayed his presence. Blaise Zabini was, after all, the most skillful and invisible of spies. They called him Lightning when they spoke of him, always in hushed tones of awe, because his enemies never saw him coming. The captures he had made and the wizards he had trapped were the stuff of legend. And now, at last, the opportunity he had been waiting for was finally at hand. Hermione Granger, witch extraordinaire and one of the leaders of the Order of the Phoenix, was rarely found with her guard so thoroughly down. This was his chance. Capturing her would be sweet revenge, delicious payback for all the times she had foiled him in the past, and he was so close to finally trapping her, he could almost taste it.  
  
He crept closer, then closer still, his eyes never wavering from the unmoving figure of the girl sitting so innocently and obliviously before the fire. His eyes lit with a spark of triumph as he approached. Nearly there... nearly there... his hands reached out to touch her, when—  
  
"You're back early," Hermione stated calmly, without looking up from her book. "Didn't you have a nice time with Caroline?"

Blaise stopped in his tracks, thinking back. "Was that her name?" he answered after a minute. "Huh." He slipped around the sofa and sprawled himself next to her. "Maybe that's why she got so annoyed when I kept calling her Catherine."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes and marked her place carefully in her book before closing it. "And herein," she said, amusement coloring her voice, "is the reason why Lightning never strikes twice."  
  
Blaise shrugged and smiled at her winningly. "It's not my fault that I've yet to come across a girl who holds my interest past the second or third date."  
  
"Or for the whole of the first date?" she replied with a smirk.  
  
Blaise shrugged. "Details."  
  
Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "You're hopeless," she scolded.  
  
"Not me, I never give up hope! That's why I keep trying."  
  
"Isn't that the truth," Hermione muttered under her breath. Persistent didn't even begin to describe Blaise. And speaking of which...  
  
"How did you know I was behind you?"  
  
Yep, right on cue. He asked every single time. When it came to most matters, Blaise was as laid back a wizard as you could find anywhere in England. There was very little that could get him riled up. But one thing that inevitably got under his skin was when someone knew something that he didn't know. Secrets drove the man berserk. In a chicken-or-egg kind of manner, Hermione often wondered which came first: was Blaise's need to know everyone's secrets the result of annoyance that anyone would be able to hide anything from such an infallible spy, or did he become a spy in the first place so that no one would be able to keep secrets hidden away from him? Either way, it drove Blaise crazy that Hermione had a secret. She _had_ to have a secret. She had to have some kind of trick, or spell, or gadget, or _something_ because Blaise Zabini was the king of spies and not once, not _ever_ had he ever been able to sneak up on her. He kept trying, of course. And he kept failing. And every time he failed, he asked again.  
  
"Magic," Hermione answered, with a faint, impenetrable smile, just as she always did. It was the only answer she ever gave.  
  
Merlin knew, she wasn't about to tell him the truth. There _was_ a reason why she could always tell when he was approaching her, and while it had nothing to do with a trick or a spell or a gadget of any kind, it was, in truth, her most deeply held secret. The secret was that she was in love with him.

It had happened gradually. Very gradually. In fact, for the first three years at Hogwarts, she had been completely unaware of his existence, aside from a vague recollection from the Sorting ceremony first year that someone in her year had a last name beginning with a Z. The first time she became truly aware of him was fourth year. Snape had been late getting to class one Friday afternoon and there had been, inevitably, an argument between Malfoy and Harry while they waited in the hallways.  
  
There was nothing startlingly new about the argument itself, of course. It was just a rehash of the same old nonsense, as always. And par for the course, the Slytherins had gathered behind Malfoy while the Gryffindors backed up Harry. Hermione was scanning the hall, hoping that Snape would swoop in soon and break up the argument before it turned into another duel, when the sight of him caught her eye.  
  
If she hadn't been looking, she wouldn't have seen him. He blended in with the shadows so well that she thought, at first, that he was a ghost. It was only after careful mental run-through of Hogwarts, a History that she remembered that there were no male, Slytherin ghosts in her age range. The fact that he was alive made him much more intriguing. Ghosts were commonplace in Hogwarts, but living Slytherin boys who stood to the side when there was a fight with Gryffindors were far more rare. There was no denying that Malfoy was a vile little rodent, but the boy still carried considerable clout in his house and when he lined up against Harry Potter, the rest of his house lined up with him. All the other Slytherins, male and female alike, were standing within three paces of Malfoy, ready to jump in at his command on a moment's notice. All of them... except for this boy, who stood nearly twenty paces away, hidden in the shadows.  
  
Snape arrived soon, deducting points liberally and ushering the students into the classroom, and the fight was soon forgotten. But Hermione was unable to forget the glimpse she caught of that most unaccountable of Slytherins. After that, she found herself looking for him. She didn't actively seek out his company, but her eyes would scan the Slytherin table at mealtimes until they fell on him. She'd make an effort to spot him in the hallways, in the Quidditch stands, in the classes Gryffindor shared with Slytherin.  
  
That was the beginning of her immunity to Blaise's spying skill. A spy's aptitude depends on his or her ability to blend completely with the background. The best way to do that is to stay under the radar. No one will see you if they have no reason to look for you. Blaise spent most of his life living in the shadows, and no one noticed. But Hermione looked for him. She _always_ looked for him. She didn't approach him; she didn't even really watch him. She simply noticed him. Noticed, most of all, the way that other people _didn't_ notice him. Noticed the way he used that to his advantage and knew, somehow, that he would never be able to use it against her. He would never be able to slip around her undetected and find out her secrets in spite of herself, because she'd notice him if he did. She always noticed him. She didn't love him, yet, but she noticed him.  
  
Over the years, she slowly began to notice more. Noticed the intelligence he never publicly displayed. Noticed the grace in his movements that allowed him to keep hidden. Noticed the handsome features blurred by the shadows he seemed to prefer. Noticed the way she responded to the sight of him, the way she couldn't help but smile when she caught him in an unguarded moment, the way she tingled a little when she saw one of _his_ smiles. She _still_ didn't love him; at most, it was a crush; but it wasn't just cold-blooded observation anymore. She was aware of him in a way she'd never really been aware of any man before. It unsettled her, though she hid it well. No one, not even her closest friends, suspected her secret. She justified keeping it to herself on the grounds that it wasn't important enough to matter. When they left Hogwarts, she was certain that she'd never see him again, and that the tiny bit of a crush she had formed around him would fade. She was wrong on both counts.  
  
He had shown up on their doorstep six months after the Hogwarts end of term. The fact that he was able to _find_ their doorstep was an impressive enough feat on its own merit for them to be willing to talk to him. Blaise refused to tell anyone other than Dumbledore how he had gotten around the Fidelius Charm, but the fact that he had somehow managed to do so made the Order members very willing to listen when he offered his services as a spy. After a battery of tests to make sure he wasn't lying and didn't intend to turn Order secrets over to Voldemort, he was accepted into the Order. More than accepted, he was asked to move in.  
  
Despite the number of bedrooms it held, only seven people lived at Grimmauld Place on a permanent basis before Blaise arrived. There were spare rooms for when people needed to spend the night, but for the most part, most of the Order's members stayed in their own homes. It helped maintain the house's security if too many people weren't constantly coming and going. As a result, the house held mainly the orphans or the outcasts: the ones who had nowhere else to go.  
  
Harry lived there, obviously. It was the only home he had after finishing Hogwarts. Hermione lived there as well, once it was decided that the best way to protect her parents was to obliviate their memories of her. Remus lived there, since the few places that would rent rooms to werewolves charged more than he could comfortably afford, and Mundungus lived there in theory to help keep an eye on the children, but in reality so that the Order could keep a closer eye on him. The Patil twins moved in after their parents were killed during a surprise raid on Diagon Alley. Justin Finch-Fletchley showed up a month later when Voldemort's forces left him an orphan in their program to get rid of the parents of muggleborn witches and wizards. Blaise was the eighth and last person to join their household during the war.  
  
It should have been odd. In a house mostly filled with Gryffindors (with the token Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw), a Slytherin should have stood out like a sore thumb. But he didn't. It was almost bizarre how well he blended. Everyone had braced themselves to "make the best of things" and "learn to live with the Slytherin" and it took a few days for them to realize that no adjustment was necessary. Blaise was, simply, a very unobjectionable housemate. He did his share of the chores without complaint, and didn't spend too long in the bathroom, and never left a mess in the kitchen sink. He had a good sense of humor, a strong sense of tact, and an unparalleled sense of discretion. The houseful of people expecting to have to tolerate him surprised themselves by actually liking him. Within a week, he was helping with the grocery shopping and responding to the inside jokes and challenging Justin to a marathon of exploding snap.  
  
It helped that he had been so anonymous at school. No one had any personal grudges against him. No one had any personal _memories_ of him, other than Hermione, and she kept those very thoroughly to herself. They had no reason to dislike him, and it wasn't long before he started giving them very concrete reasons to like and value him, partially because he was a pleasant housemate, but mostly because he was _very_ good at what he did. When one of his spying missions saved George Weasley's life, he earned the very vocal and vehement support of the whole of the Weasley family, and with the weight of their backing behind him, it wasn't long before he had earned everyone's trust. By the time he had been there for a month, he was trusted completed.  
  
The only thing that was held back from him was Hermione's one, small secret that she positively refused to share: she no longer noticed him, she no longer had a crush on him; she had finally fallen in love with him. Somewhere between seeing that sleepy smile on his face when she handed him his first cup of coffee in the morning, learning to appreciate his keen mind as they debated every topic under the sun, growing to trust and value his cunning as he laid out plans to end the dark war, watching him save her friends' lives with his highly toned skill and indomitable courage and discovering he made a really good chicken curry, she'd fallen for him, head over heels. And she had stayed that way, ever since.  
  
Of course, she knew she didn't stand a chance with him. In the aftermath of the war, girls had done everything short of send Blaise their knickers by owl post. Every time he went out, there was always a string of girls eager to take him home, and Blaise never put up much of a fuss about accepting. Why would he? He was a man, after all, and what man wouldn't say yes to a beautiful girl who wanted to take him home and ravish him? And they were always beautiful girls. Beautiful, confident, experienced girls with silky hair and perfect figures. Girls that he had never seen with a bad case of the flu or covered in mud from a botched attack or hexed purple for a solid two weeks from a mispronounced prank. No, Hermione knew she didn't stand a chance.

But she knew she was important to him, and she tried to tell herself that that was enough. After all, Blaise would never forget her name the way he had with Caroline/Catherine. And he'd never forget her birthday. Or that she loved daisies and chocolate chip brownies and sleeping in on Sunday mornings. And those girls would never know him like she did, either. They'd never know that the tops of his ears turned red on the rare occasion when he blushed, or that he pouted like a five year old when anyone tried to make him eat lima beans. No, they'd never be as close to him as she was.

So there was no reason to let it bother her, as she told herself countless times. There was no reason to be jealous just because those silly girls knew how his hands felt trailing up their legs while he stared into their eyes with an expression that was half teasing and half challenging. There was no reason to envy them their knowledge of the husky sound of his voice as he whispered in their ears how badly he wanted them, nor should she covet their memories of the way his body felt on top of theirs, skin to skin. She shouldn't hate them just because they had the one thing she wanted more than anything. She should just... just enjoy the piece of him that she got to have for herself and remind herself that even if she had the choice, she wouldn't give up what she had with him in exchange for one night of pleasure. And she should try not to let it hurt quite so much that even the option of one night of pleasure with the man she loved was something she'd never have.


	2. Section 2

See part one for disclaimers.

0000000

Section 2:  
  
Blaise watched as Hermione's eyes went distant and pouted in spite of himself. He hated when she ignored him. When even his pout failed to get her attention, he shrugged philosophically and set about rearranging the blanket she had cocooned herself within until it surrounded the two of them, its smallness forcing him to be plastered to her side: right where he wanted to be. He slid an arm around her shoulders and grinned when she instinctively cuddled in closer to him. He knew Hermione loved to snuggle and took advantage of that knowledge whenever he could, relishing the opportunity to settle her into his arms and enjoy the feel of her body against his. She felt warm and soft as always, and Blaise felt his body relax as the tension released from his shoulders and back. Always a Slytherin, he rarely let down his guard in public, but sitting in Grimmauld Place with Hermione in his arms, he felt sufficiently safe and at peace to let all his guards drop.

Even though he had been in love with her for the better part of a year and a half, it was still a pleasant novelty for Blaise to feel so peaceful and content being close to someone else. For most of his life, as far back as he could remember, he had never particularly liked being touched. His parents were sensible, practical, completely unemotional people who had always treated each other with the relaxed, informal camaraderie of business partners, and showered their only child with a sort of fond but distant amiability and a respect for his abilities that you might expect a senior partner in a powerful business to show a bright, capable junior associate.

Blaise had no doubt that his parents genuinely liked him. They appreciated his intelligence and keen wit, admired his success and prestige, and were happy to provide him with all the goods and services he required through his childhood to develop his mind and sharpen his skills. He liked them, as well. They were sufficiently intelligent and well-read to make for very pleasant company and sufficiently honorable for him to trust them not to hurt him deliberately.

They were, in their own fashion, good parents. Blaise had no doubt that they would have still have raised and sheltered him through his childhood and provided him with any services he required even if they _hadn't_ like him, personally. They were good people and wouldn't have abandoned an innocent child to a life of penury or homelessness simply because they found his personality unamiable or unsuited to their own personal preferences. But the idea of _loving_ their child, or each other, or any other living creature on earth with a passionate, emotional intensity, simply never occurred to them. They were friendly with their son, but they were never loving to him or to anyone else. Affection wasn't omitted through any malicious intent; they simply didn't know how to include it.

By the time hugs and kisses entered into his range of experience, their purpose was far from familial. He lost his virginity at the age of thirteen to a seventeen year old whore. She could not teach him anything about love she didn't feel or affection she didn't understand, but she could teach him everything a thirteen-year old boy could handle about the pleasure two bodies can experience through purely sensual touch. He learned that sex was good and enjoyable, in much the same way that chocolate and racing brooms and Christmas presents were good and enjoyable. He didn't equate the sexual act with love or affection, of course. Instead, he equated it simply with pleasure. The girl gave him a great deal of pleasure during those hot summer nights, and taught him a great deal of useful information about how to give her pleasure in return.

Every night they enjoyed together, after they were sweaty and spent, he would drop the agreed-upon amount into her money pouch, and she would gather her clothing and leave. Post-coital cuddling was never suggested by either party: he didn't know enough to suggest it, and she had no desire to spend time performing an activity for which she would not be paid. He was sixteen before he realized that "sleeping together" was not just a euphemism and that some couples actually shared a bed while they slept. The concept didn't interest him. Fortunately, his lovers were almost exclusively whores or Slytherins who fucked for pleasure and personal gain, (the difference being that Slytherins preferred a different currency to cash,) and who had little interest in sharing his bed after the act. When he completed his Hogwarts education at the age of eighteen, he was everything a Slytherin and a Zabini was supposed to be: attractive, intelligent, cunning, ambitious, professionally adept, sexually skilled, and emotionally vacant. And so he might have been for the rest of his life, if it hadn't been for the Order of the Phoenix, and Hermione.  
  
Blaise's reasons for joining the Order were simple. His spying skills, which had been the main source of his pocket money during his Hogwarts days, had not been forgotten by his old clients/schoolmates. While vacationing in the south of France shortly after completing his Hogwarts education, some of his Slytherin acquaintances came calling, urging him to join the Death Eaters. Though Blaise had always kept his opinions on the Dark Lord largely to himself, they were, nonetheless, fully formed and well thought out. Blaise had long-since realized that he was too dispassionate to care about the fate of muggle-blooded wizards and witches and too rich and high born to benefit from alliance with Voldemort in a more pragmatic fashion. Even in the best case scenario, there was nothing Voldemort offered his followers that Blaise was interested in obtaining. Meanwhile, the worst case scenario meant that he could lose his life, his fortune, or his sanity in service to the dark wizard.

Unable to see the point of involving himself in a war where he had nothing to gain and a great deal to lose, he had told them he didn't want to choose sides. They had told him he didn't have a choice. His skills as a spy were too valuable to be wasted in war time. He had to pick one side or another. Blaise carefully weighed the pros and cons of each side, researching the two as thoroughly as he could to make a careful decision. When he discovered that Voldemort had the habit of using skin-melting hexes on spies who brought him bad news, he chose to join the Order.

When Blaise penetrated the Order headquarters and Dumbledore pulled out the Veritaserum, Blaise wasn't worried in the least. His motives might have been different from the rest of the Order, but the end purpose was still the same. Voldemort interfered with the life that Blaise wished to lead, therefore Blaise wanted Voldemort defeated. Working for the Order to obtain that end result would be mutually beneficial for both Blaise and the Order. Dumbledore, who was far less idealistic and far more pragmatic than some might have believed, took the opportunity presented to him and accepted Blaise into the Order. Moving him into the house had been a safety measure designed to protect him from his former housemates who didn't approve of his decision. Blaise's intention was to live there as long as he remained in danger from the Death Eaters, and then leave them all behind when the war was over so he could go back to the life he had always planned to lead. The thought that he might wish to stay after the dust had settled didn't even occur to him. He never expected to be actually influenced by the people he lived with. But then, he had never lived with Hermione Granger before.

He hadn't been an admirer of Hermione's in their school days. In fact, he hadn't paid much attention to her at all. Blaise didn't have enough interest in Voldemort's dealing to follow the heroics of the Golden Trio, and outside of Death Eater business, Gryffindors rarely factored into Slytherin house politics. Sharing a house with her, however, drew her quickly to his attention, and the more he looked at her, the more he liked what he saw. A Hermione Granger who had grown up quite a bit since school and wore skimpy muggle clothing when hanging about the house was a Hermione Granger he wouldn't mind getting to know.

The more he saw, the more thoroughly she intrigued him. Hermione was not the most aesthetically perfect woman he had ever seen, but she was, perhaps, the most unforgettable. She had a vibrancy to her, an intense energy radiating off of her skin that stood in stark contrast to the ice-cold, emotionless women he was accustomed to spending time with. Blaise realized with a tinge of shame that Hermione was more passionately committed to the happiness of house elves she'd rarely even seen than Blaise was to anything under the sun, excluding his own safety and comfort.

Hermione fought in the war not to save herself or even to protect her friends but because she truly, genuinely believed that Voldemort was wrong to use his powers against other people, and that it was her obligation as a human being to protect them and defeat their tormentor, using everything at her disposal up to and including her life. Her whole-hearted commitment to her beliefs shocked and bewildered Blaise. For someone who had spent his entire life taking the path of least resistance, the intensity with which Hermione cared about people whose lives didn't touch hers at all was honestly astonishing and surprisingly appealing. More than just appealing.

She was so beautiful when she was passionate about something. When she got to talking about house elf rights or the origins of the Order of the Phoenix or the work she wanted to do in mediwizardry when the war was over, her eyes would sparkle and her face would glow and she would practically vibrate with energy and enthusiasm. Blaise had always thought that he was being smart by not letting anything entrap him emotionally. As long as he didn't care about anything, he had no weaknesses that could be used against him. But as he watched Hermione and the way her passion for helping others made her light up, inside and out, he finally began to wonder what he missed out on by not allowing any passion in his life.

If Hermione's passion intrigued him, her gentleness positively entranced him. For the first time in his life, he saw what affection was really like. Hermione was a hands-on person by nature, and when she was with her friends, she could hardly keep her hands off of them. She was constantly ruffling Ron's hair or squeezing Harry's hand and she must have given the Patil girls and Justin twenty hugs a day on those occasions when she sensed they were hurting over their parents' deaths. Even the affection that she lavished on that orange pile of fat and fur she called a cat was more than Blaise had ever experienced in his life. The concept of non-sexual touching continued to confuse him, but he couldn't block out the unfamiliar longing to be touched so freely and affectionately. He felt too awkward to actively invite her touch, but as she became used to him, she began to touch him naturally and instinctively, the way she did with everyone, and he felt something inside him purr with pleasure whenever he felt the warmth of her touch.

His desire for her developed quickly and was instantly identifiable. His love came more gradually, and took him longer to figure out. Learning to love was new to him, and he had trouble recognizing the feelings within him. All he knew was that he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to please her. He brought home flowers he knew she liked, for no other reason than to see her smile. He snuck glimpses at the books she pored over and bought his own copies so he could discuss them with her. He started to take more risks in his assignments, showing more initiative to protect people even at the risk of endangering himself, just so he could see the look of admiration in her eyes when he made his report. He found himself taking steps with his life and his choices so that he could be someone she could be proud of. Loving her gave him something to believe in and his drive to earn her approval made him struggle to be a better man. By the time he finally acknowledged to himself that what he felt for her was love, he was ready to be the kind of man who'd be worthy of her love, in return.

He didn't expect it to make him famous. He fought for Hermione, and for the beliefs he had learned from her that made him feel that fighting was the right thing to do. He didn't do it for the notoriety, which is, perhaps, why the notoriety came. The wizarding world was desperate for heroes and the newspapers jumped at the opportunity Blaise represented. He was practically romance novel material: the Slytherin who saw the error of Voldemort's ways and became a hero for the Light Forces. His skill both as a spy and as leader of sudden, surprise attacks became widely publicized and stories entitled "Lightning Strikes Again" were matched in popularity only by stories about the Boy Who Lived, himself. Men stopped him in the street to shake his hand. Children stared and pointed and looked at him with a degree of awe he had always thought was reserved for Quidditch stars and action-book heroes. Women cried when they thanked him for what he had done. He was surprised both at just how good it made him feel to be viewed as a hero and a protector, and at just how determined it made him not to disappoint anyone in their belief in him.

By the end of the war, the metamorphosis was complete. Gone was the cold, emotionless boy who regarded war as an inconvenience to his scheduled life. In his place was a warm, affectionate man who had earned not only admiration from society for his selfless acts of bravery, but also a deep and abiding friendship from a handful of people he truly cared about. Heading the list of those friends was Hermione Granger, who he adored with a passion that grew every day. Blaise was pleased with his life. He had a job he enjoyed working as an Auror, coworkers he respected, superiors he admired, a comfortable home and true friends to take the edge off whenever life got hard. He was very nearly perfectly happy. All he needed was for Hermione to fall in love with him. It had happened for all the rest of his friends, and he couldn't help but feel that it was his and Hermione's turn to find their happily ever after, together.

When the war ended, it was all the tensions in the wizarding world had a massive, collective release. All the things everyone had been too scared to do during the war, they were finally able to tackle. Most especially, everyone finally felt they could commit to the relationships they had formed. Blaise attended more weddings in the six month period directly following the war than he had in the six years previous. When the dust settled, Ron had married Luna, Neville had married Ginny, Justin had married Parvati, Remus had married Tonks and, in a move that surprised everyone, Mundungus had married Rosmerta. (Everyone privately agreed that the poor lately was selling herself woefully short, but it was obvious that Mundungus admired her nearly as much as he feared her, and with her experience dealing with men who had an overdeveloped fondness for firewhiskey, they knew that she would be able to keep him in line with an efficiency and thoroughness not even Dumbledore could have managed.)

Harry and Padma were dating (Harry always did have a thing for dark-haired Ravenclaws) but had decided to hold off on getting engaged until Padma had a chance to take the Ancient Runes Masters program at Anticocorre University in Milan. They had agreed that they'd both be free to see other people while they were apart... but that didn't stop Padma from apparating back to London practically every weekend to shag Harry senseless. Since Hermione, Harry and Blaise were the only unmarried members of the old gang left in London, Harry insisted that Hermione and Blaise continue to live in Grimmauld Place. It didn't take much convincing. Blaise would have been willing to live on a park bench if it meant that he could stay close to Hermione.

With nearly all their friends married and Harry next door to engaged, Blaise and Hermione were paired up to spend time together fairly often simply by default since neither of them were involved in any serious relationships. Blaise, with his new-found celebrity (and his already committed heart), was the king of one night stands and Hermione, for some unaccountable reason, never seemed to go out with a wizard more than two or three times. The reason, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Blaise did everything in his power to intimidate any poor fool who dared ask Hermione out on a date. No, it was pure chance that Blaise and Hermione always seemed to end up alone together.

Sadly, taking advantage of the situation to develop something beyond friendship seemed to be the absolute last thing on Hermione's mind. Her behavior to him was so appallingly _sisterly_ that it damn near broke his heart. He knew he had been slotted in her mind simply as a friend, and had no idea how he could go about getting her to view him as a possible lover. If he had loved her less, Blaise might have pursued her, courted her, actively worked to win her over. But loving her made him feel amazingly awkward and shy. He had never cared so much about anyone in his life, and he was terrified that he would say or do something wrong and ruin the best thing he had in his life. He wanted so badly to be able to give her everything she needed, but he just didn't know _how_. And then one night while he was pining over Hermione to the tune of a bottle of firewhiskey, a girl recognized him from the newspaper articles and approached to ask if she could buy a drink for one of England's heroes. He accepted.

His friends teased him about it. With all of them married or nearly married, the men seemed to live vicariously through him and constantly pestered him for stories about his wild, bachelor life. His one-night stands became nearly legendary in their group and they took him out to bars just to watch him in action. They had watched so often that they all knew his game of seduction by heart. Blaise rarely initiated a conversation, but it seemed like every bar they visited, there was always a pretty girl who found some excuse to come over to 'thank' or 'congratulate' the 'hero of the war.' The rest of the gang would shake their heads wisely and snicker into their beers as they announced that Lightning was about to strike, again.

And strike he did. The girls were more than willing, they were _eager_ to take a legend into their bed, and the physical intimacy took his mind off of his longing for Hermione for a few hours. And so Blaise drifted into the habit of a string of one-night stands while he pined for Hermione and waited for her to love him.

Blaise sighed as he snuggled just a little closer to her, breathing in her scent and relishing the feel of her body pressed against his. He allowed himself to get a bit lost in his own thoughts as he imagined what it would be like if they were lovers, and he could hold her like this every night. Smiling at the pleasant fantasy, Blaise cuddled himself as close to Hermione as he could get, absorbing her warmth and her sweetness and her softness and the sheer pleasure of being near her for as long as he could.


	3. Section 3

See part one for disclaimers.

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Section 3:

"Ladies and gentlemen," Harry announced, his eyes twinkling in true, Dumbledore fashion, "I think we have a winner. Lightning is about to strike, again!"

Ron and Justin cheered while Parvati and Hermione groaned and Luna simply smiled dreamily in that way she had, but they all turned to watch as Blaise began to cross the barroom floor. He had been approached twice already that night, leading to two false alarms as the girls each approached Blaise with those inimitable smiles on their faces that all-too-clearly advertised their intentions only to be politely but firmly sent away. With this one, however, the interest in Blaise's face was unmistakable. He'd been throwing little glances her way all night, and now he was finally making his move.

Hermione bit the inside corner of her lip while she mentally recited all the editors who had ever contributed to Hogwarts, A History first in alphabetical order by last name, then in alphabetical order by first name, then in alphabetical order by spouse's first name... but it didn't work. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't manage to calm and refocus her thoughts. Her primal instincts were urging her to go over to that blasted witch that had caught Blaise's attention and drag her out of the pub by her hair before hexing her into an animal with bristles and spikes. And warts. Definitely warts.

She thought she had become accustomed to Blaise going home with a different witch every night, but she had been wrong. It was one thing to watch from the sidelines while one witch after another seduced the man she loved into their beds. It was quite another to watch the man himself initiate the seduction.

Fortunately, her friends were far too busy watching Blaise in action to realize that every trace of a smile had faded off of her face as Blaise approached the witch in question and caught her attention with a dazzling smile. Hermione felt her fingernails start to dig into her palm when Blaise led the girl to the bar and bought her a drink. When Blaise leaned over to whisper something in her ear, causing the girl to simultaneously giggle and blush, the inside corner of Hermione's lip began to bleed from being bitten too hard and she decided that she had seen quite enough.

"I'd think I'd best be going," she announced to the table at general. With a sigh of aggravation, she realized that no one had heard what she said. Bloody _nuisance_ of a noisy bar; it was no _wonder_ she wanted to get out of there.

Technically, she was there as Harry's date since Padma hadn't been able to come in that weekend and Blaise was, as always, quite thoroughly occupied with other women, so Hermione tried to get Harry's attention first to let him know she was leaving. It was an exercise in futility; Harry was having a marvelous time goofing off with Ron and Justin and was completely oblivious to Hermione's increasingly frantic attempts to get his attention. Finally, she gave up and turned to the person seated closest. When Harry finally realized she was gone, at least someone would be able to tell him where she went.

It took a minute of persistent tugging, but Hermione finally managed to get Luna's attention. "I'm tired, Luna," Hermione told her, forcing a faint smile onto her face, "I'm going to head home."

"You've got blood coming from the corner of your lip," Luna replied. "Do you think you might have been bitten by a vampire beetle? If so, then you shouldn't go to sleep or the effects may become permanent." Hermione took a deep breath and forced herself not to tell Luna that vampire beetles didn't exist. Arguing with Luna about the nonexistence of bizarre creatures was about as productive as attempting to chew one of Hagrid's rock cakes, and at the moment, all Hermione really wanted was to get out of that bar and away from that blasted _tramp_ of a witch who was now whispering in Blaise's ear.

"I won't go to sleep until I'm sure I'm not infected," Hermione promised as she got up from her chair and gathered up her cloak. Luna merely nodded at her and returned her attention to Ron, as usual. No one else seemed to notice as Hermione slipped silently to the door.

As soon as the cool, outdoor air hit her face, the tears came along with the stinging pain that started in her chest and spread along her nerve endings all the way to the tips of her fingers until she was tense head to toe with the ache of it. As emotionally jumbled as she was at the moment, she knew that apparation would cap her evening by leaving her splinched, so she started to walk in the direction of Grimmauld Place. The fact that it was three kilometers away didn't discourage her in the least. She rather relished the thought of a long walk. Maybe she could get all the tears out of her system before she got home. They continued to fall at an alarming rate, leaving her comforted in the knowledge that her body's water supply couldn't keep up a rate like that for long. If she was patient, she'd run out of tears, eventually.

She didn't bother brushing them away. Long hair came in handy at times: as long as she kept her head down, her hair would screen her face, and she could cry in peace, undisturbed. Keeping her eyes focused on the pavement in front of her, she began to walk, paying little attention to direction as she simply walked where her feet led her, letting the tears fall as she went.

She walked through noisy streets. She walked through quiet streets. She walked through streets lined with bookshops where she stopped mechanically and looked at the windows without processing anything that she saw. She very nearly walked _in_ to a fountain that she didn't notice in her distraction, but she managed to avoid it at the last minute. She walked until her feet hurt in the less than sensible shoes she had worn because she thought they made her legs look nice. And then she walked some more. Her tears died out after twenty minutes or so, as expected, and the pain faded somewhat to a type of numbness after about half an hour.

Walking had always been therapeutic for Hermione. It started when she was six years old and began having bursts of uncontrolled magic when she was angry or upset. Her parents, bewildered and more than a little scared at the strangely waterproof flames that sprouted up around the house at odd, inconvenient intervals that unluckily seemed to concur with their daughter being in a temper, would tell her to go outside and walk around the block until she calmed down. At the very least, they figured, it would get their bookish daughter outside in the fresh air, away from her books, and out from underfoot while they tried to deal with the fires. They lived in a safe, quiet, residential neighborhood populated almost entirely with retirees who doted on Hermione as the only child in the area, so they knew she was in no danger. Usually, after a few circuits of the block, she had forgotten her anger and was busy chatting with Mrs. Gibson about her dahlias over a cup of tea and stale biscuits by the time her parents came to find her.

By the time they discovered the cause of those waterproof flames, the habit had already been ingrained, and Hermione continued walking away her anger or her pain after she entered Hogwarts. During first year when nobody liked her and second year when Ron stopped speaking to her and third year when Ron _and_ Harry were angry with her and all the other times throughout all of the seven years when she'd been alone and hurting and not wanting to show it, she'd developed the habit of going outside on the grounds, regardless of the weather, to walk around the lake.

She'd let herself relax into the purely mechanized movement that did not require her thought or her attention, and she'd let her mind burn through the things that bothered her. Her anger or her hurt or her sadness would be blazing when she began, but as she circled the lake over and over again, some of that fire would burn out. She always felt calmer when she was done, more relaxed and certain of herself. She'd pop over to Hagrid's cabin and he'd make her a cup of tea and she'd chat about how sweet blast ended skrewts were, once you got to know them, or how fascinating she found flubberworms, and then she'd return to the castle, feeling ready to face her problems again.

By the time she reached home, three quarters of an hour after leaving the bar, she was reasonably certain that she had calmed herself down. It still hurt to think of Blaise wanting every woman under the sun who wasn't her... but the pain was bearable now. Heading up the stairs to her room, she resolved to hang up her cloak, head back down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, and then get some sleep. She breezed up the staircase and into her room without noticing anything strange and actually managed to hang up her cloak and exit her bedroom before an out of place sound made her freeze.

Moans. Passionate, lustful, purely sensual moans, coming from Blaise's room. Hermione's jaw clenched in a mixture of anger, annoyance, and blinding hurt. The idiot hadn't even thought to put up a silencing charm. Not surprising, really, since the situation had never before occurred. Blaise invariably went to the girls' flats instead of bringing them home with him. This girl must really be something since Blaise openly pursued her _and_ brought her home.

Hermione's instinct was to put back on her shoes and head back outside for another long, long walk... but that wasn't really an option now. It was late, she was tired, her muscles and her feet were sore and overstrained. A walk might actually do some damage to her at this point. As tempting as it sounded, no one could walk indefinitely. Mechanically, she slid into the second part of her routine and headed down to the kitchen. She was barely aware of her own movements as she put the kettle on to boil and brought out the sugar and milk. Operating on auto-pilot, she made herself a cup of tea. Then she placed it on the kitchen table, seated herself in front of it, put her head down on her arms and started to cry.


	4. Section 4

See part one for disclaimers.

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Section 4:

Careful not to move a muscle, Blaise concentrated his finely honed senses on the woman lying next to him, and let out a sigh of relief. Finally, she was asleep. He had, heavens be praised, shagged her far too thoroughly for her to attempt any pillow talk post-sex, but she had tossed and turned for a few minutes afterwards before she finally settled down to sleep. If she had lasted much longer, Blaise was certain his restraint would have snapped and he would have hexed her to sleep. If he couldn't pull away from her soon, he just might lose his mind. What on earth would inspire any woman to wear that much perfume? He had hoped she'd sweat some of it off during sex, but if anything, the smell seemed to be stronger than before. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he realized how difficult it would be to get the smell out of his bedding. Yes, this was definitely the _last_ time he brought a woman home.

It was also, not coincidentally, the first time. Despite the number of witches who had made it all too abundantly clear just how gratefully they would respond to an invitation into the house of both Blaise Zabini and Harry Potter, he always preferred to keep his home separate from his one-night stands. Home was Hermione; he didn't like seeing other witches in the place he associated with his love. But after his most recent experience, he had a whole, new, bottomless-bagful of reasons not to want to bring a witch home with him, and to be thankful that he never had before.

If he had been through this before, he would have realized that any woman he brought home would, more likely than not, pollute his sheets with cheap perfume and hog the blankets and make it completely impossible for him to sleep. Bloody nuisance, really, having to share his bed with practically a stranger. He didn't know how so many bachelors pulled it off successfully. How on earth was he supposed to sleep with someone he barely knew, much less trusted, lying next to him? And since this was his home and not hers, he couldn't just get dressed and sneak out the door while she slept, leaving nothing behind but a note, like he usually did. No, he had to stay, and share his bed and (he shuddered at the thought) deal with her in the morning. But first things first: she had tangled herself around him like devil's snare he absolutely had to get himself out of her arms.

Moving slowly and carefully, Blaise unwound her arms and legs from his body and shifted over and out of the bed. She stirred a bit in her sleep at the absence of his body pressed against hers and he held his breath while he waited to see if she would wake up or settle back into sleep. His lips quirked in a bit of a smile when she stopped shifting but he didn't release his held breath just yet; he still wasn't in the clear. Mustering all his considerable reserves of stealth and silence, he slipped out of his room, shutting the door _extremely_ gently behind him. Finally free, he exhaled in relief as he leaned back against the door, feeling oddly as if he had escaped prison. Yes, he definitely wouldn't be asking anyone to come home with him again any time soon.

In his defense, he wouldn't have done it this time, only the woman said she shared a studio flat with a nurse who'd be coming home from a late shift at four in the morning. When she looked up at him from underneath long lashes and coyly asked whether he had a bedroom to himself at his house, it hadn't occurred to him to say no. He'd wanted her, and the sacrifice of a little of his privacy for one night seemed, at that point, a relatively small price for him to pay.

She had caught his eye practically from the moment he entered the bar. A spotlight couldn't have drawn his eyes faster than those loose, wild, golden curls spilling down her back in an achingly familiar waterfall, causing his breath to catch in his throat at the sight. The color was wrong, of course, but the length and the texture were just right, and he knew that he would use every trick in his book to make sure his hands were buried in those golden curls before the end of the night. She came the closest Blaise had ever seen (and he had certainly devoted plenty of time to looking) to hair just like Hermione's.

It was a long-standing habit of his to show preference to women who physically resembled Hermione. Even the most disinterested observer could tell that his tastes ran to witches who came closest to being curvy and petite with long, curly hair. Regardless of whether or not he would ever be able to be with Hermione, he still considered her the most desirable woman on the face of the planet. If he couldn't have her, he'd find the nearest substitute he could get. That way, in the darkness of the bedroom, he would, at least, be able to pretend.

Unfortunately for Blaise, the styles of the season demanded that witches be tall and slim, with perfectly straight hair. Those unfortunate witches who were born with short statures, rounded hips and curly hair embraced spells and enchantments to "improve" upon their natural appearance. Height and form were difficult to alter, especially for witches with limited skills at charms, but hair straightening potions were readily available, and Blaise had been hard pressed to find any accessible witch with the long, curly hair he ached to touch. This girl's hair caught Blaise's eye immediately and he approached her at the first available opportunity.

Her name was Nellie, and she worked at the Chudley Cannons stadium in concessions, no doubt selling Every Flavor Beans and Fizzing Popcorn to the masses with a smile on her face. Or maybe her name was Shelley and she was a groupie who liked to attend the Cannons' practice sessions? Truth be told, Blaise hadn't been paying much attention, deciding early on that it was a better use of his time to focus on playing with her hair while she chattered away in the bar. Her voice was high pitched and a bit grating, but her hair was soft and he concentrated on that, allowing the irritation of her voice to blend with the background noise of the bar.

She got pleasantly quiet when he started nuzzling her hair, enjoying the feel of it against his face as he pressed soft kisses to her neck. She did not, in fact, speak again until he whispered the suggestion in her ear that they take this back to her place. She told him about her roommate and turned in his arms to press her body more closely against his as she asked about the privacy of his room. His hands slid into her hair at that moment and with his eyes closed, a petite, curvaceous body pressed against his and those soft, thick curls wrapped around his hands, there was no way on earth he was going to tell her no.

But if she thought that hair and a figure like Hermione's was enough for him to let her use him as a life-size teddy bear all night long, she had another thing coming. Hermione always saw to it that the guest rooms were kept clean in case they had unexpected company; he could crash in one of them for the rest of the night. But first, he thought with a grimace of distaste, he needed a glass of water. He felt like he could still taste that perfume in the back of his throat.

His eyes brightened when he saw the light coming from the kitchen. He knew it was Hermione. Harry's eyelids started drooping around ten o'clock and it took a Herculean effort and a large cup of coffee for him to remain awake past midnight, but Blaise and Hermione were both inveterate night owls and had spent many a night talking about anything and everything over a pot of tea. Blaise most definitely wasn't the type to be easily rattled; his heart rate had remained steady that evening even when Shelly (Nellie?) had started undressing, giving him a slow and deliberate strip-tease; but his heart started pounding as he headed down the stairs at the thought of spending a few hours just talking and laughing with Hermione.

And then his heart felt like it stopped completely when he got close enough to hear the sound of her crying. Not just crying, she was sobbing, like she had cried out all her energy but couldn't stop the tears from coming. Blaise wanted to run down those stairs, gather her in his arms and kiss away every single tear. He wanted to find out whoever it was who had made her cry, and hex him into pieces. He wanted to give her anything, _everything_ in the world that could make her happy so that she'd never cry again. But he couldn't even go into the kitchen and ask her what was wrong since a hand reached out to snake around his arm before he got to the bottom of the steps and a high pitched, grating voice echoed through the stairwell.

"What are you doing out of bed, love?" she asked, probably trying to sound seductive as she wrapped herself around him again. Blaise grimaced, but before he had a chance to reply, Hermione appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"Is someone th—" Hermione started to ask, but her voice faltered off when she caught sight of a rather shell-shocked looking Blaise draped with a girl trying to attach herself to him with both arms, both legs, and a very adventurous tongue. "Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry," she managed to say after a long pause. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"Hermione, no!" Blaise exclaimed, trying, with little success, to detach the leech-like girl from his body. "You're not interrupting anything."

"That's right," the girl contributed cheerfully. "Shagging on wooden stairs is bloody awkward." Blaise stopped his attempts to make her let go as he simply stared at her in shock, amazed that anyone could be so tactless and oblivious, all at once. The girl, blissfully unaware, continued: "We were just going to head back to bed anyway, isn't that right, lover?"

Blaise opened his mouth to answer, but the girl, apparently thinking that Blaise was warming up to her again since he had stopped trying to remove her, grew more adventurous, slipping a deft hand inside his boxers to grope him. Blaise, caught completely off-guard, could only manage to make a shocked, terribly unmanly squeaking sound instead of the response he had intended.

Hermione didn't wait to him to elaborate as she rushed up the stairs, hurtling past them and managing to get herself inside her room with the door closed before Blaise even managed to extract Nellie's hand out of his boxers.

With a snarl of annoyance, he finally managed to grab her wrist and pull it free. If he expected that to discourage her, he was in for a great disappointment.

"Oooh, you want to play rough?" she purred, taking the increasingly angry look on his face as confirmation. "I like that game," she simpered, running her tongue seductively over the hand that held her wrist in a death grip. Pulling away from him, she darted up to the top of the stairs. "Come and get me, big boy," she teased before giggling and rushing toward his bedroom.

Blaise growled and headed for the bedroom. Oh, he'd _get_ her, alright. He'd get her out of his hair and out of his house, and then he'd find out what was wrong with his Hermione, and then he'd get a can of paint and paint on his wall in letters a meter tall each that he would never, never bring a woman home with him again.


	5. Section 5

See part one for disclaimers.

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Section 5:

The silencing spell Hermione cast when she slammed the door behind her had so much power in it that the clock on her wall (while continuing to function perfectly) would never tick audibly again. Just as well. Her nerves were on edge already, and the ticking of the clock would, most likely, have only made it worse. Hermione threw her wand against the wall and huffed in frustration when it bounced harmlessly off. After Ron's fiasco second year with his Spellotaped wand and backfiring spells, she had found an enchantment to make her wand as durable as stone while maintaining the weight and texture of wood. Simply hurling it against the wall wasn't enough to break it. Pity. She really felt like breaking something (or several things) into lots of tiny, ground-into-dust pieces; preferably starting that skanky little tramp's nose.

What had the girl been _thinking_ groping Blaise like that on the stairwell? Aside from the fact that it was impossibly rude to do something like that in front of an audience, (particularly when that audience consisted of another girl who was madly and unrequitedly in love with the boy being molested,) there were also logistics to be considered. Did she have some kind of death wish? The staircases at Grimmauld Place were steep, and the floor beneath them was made of stone. The last thing on earth any _sensible_ woman would want was a man off balance and unaware of his surroundings holding on to her and teetering on the top of a staircase. Idiot.

And Blaise was an idiot as well, for letting her do it. If Blaise took a tumble down the stairs, it would be no one's fault but his own and it would be a cold day in hell before Hermione would lift a finger to help him. Not that she _could_ help him, even if she wanted to, with that silencing charm on her room. He could crash directly from the top of the ceiling to the floor and she wouldn't be able to hear it. Wouldn't be able to hear him if he cried out in pain. Wouldn't be able to hear him if he cried out... in pleasure. Wouldn't be able to hear him if he took that witch back into his room and did things that make them both cry out, for the rest of the night and into the morning... Yes, Hermione wouldn't be able hear a thing that he did, or a thing that was done to him. There was some comfort in that.

While it was a relief to know that nothing short of a World Cup size Sonorus would be able to penetrate the powerful silencing spell she had cast, Hermione reluctantly admitted to herself that the silence, in and of itself, was very little help. She no longer heard the sounds of current kissing or moaning or flesh rubbing against flesh, but she could still hear, echoing in her head, the sounds of lovemaking she had overheard when she came home. Listening to Blaise make love to some other girl was, up to that point, the most painful thing she had ever experienced in her life. The current silence did very little to drive the memory of it out of her head and her heart.

But even harder to bear than the memory of the sounds they made together in Blaise's bed was the memory of that harlot's voice on the staircase just moments ago, calling Blaise 'lover.' Because that's what he was. He was her lover. He was the one who had chosen to bring her into his home and into his bed. This wasn't another one of his one night stands; this was a woman he brought _home_ for the first time in as long as Hermione had known him. That meant that, for whatever reason, this girl was something special to him.

Hermione, though inexperienced, wasn't naïve. She had no illusions that he passed the time playing exploding snap with the witches he went home with on the nights he came home just before dawn with his shirt misbuttoned, his hair a mess, and a just-been-shagged grin on his face. But she did love him so very much, and while knowing he had a string of lovers was (horrifically, agonizingly) painful, she had at least been able to take comfort in the knowledge that none of them meant anything to him. He never brought any of them home. Half the time, he barely remembered their names. It was a pitiful consolation knowing that while he didn't love her, at least he didn't love anyone else, either, but a pitiful consolation is better than none at all.

This girl changed all that. Listening to him make love and knowing that this girl had broken all of Blaise's rules had been bad enough. After a few moments of listening in the hallway while her overactive and far too logical imagination told her _exactly_ what they were doing, and just how much they were both enjoying it, all that Hermione had wanted to do was put her head down and cry out her pain and her sadness. She was convinced that nothing in her life could ever hurt so badly. But just a few minutes later, she heard those voices on the staircase and stepped out to investigate, and the worst night of her life got even worse.

The girl was an idiot. _Really_ an idiot, and that wasn't just the jealousy talking. Every word out of her mouth had made Hermione cringe. She wanted to wash her ears out with soap. She wanted to wash _Blaise's_ ears out with soap. Was he deaf? How could he possibly be attracted to a woman who sounded like that? How could he get turned on by someone so shrill, so grating, so obviously lacking in intelligence or decorum or basic _decency_ for pity's sake? Hermione knew that intelligence quota wasn't a high priority for wizards when getting a witch into bed, but Blaise was supposed to be better than that. He had spent all that time chatting the girl up at the bar; surely he had noticed that she had a voice like a dull knife sawing through thick cardboard. How could he be so attracted to that... and not at all attracted to her?

Honestly, what kind of woman even _knew_ that it was uncomfortable to shag on a wooden staircase? She had been speaking from first-hand experience; that much was blatantly clear. And the kind of woman who would shag on a wooden staircase (aside from deserving every single splinter she could get) would, unquestionably, have few scruples about things like protection and safe sex. She was probably a breeding ground for venereal diseases. Stupid _and_ aggravatingly shrill _and_ beyond question infected with herpes, or syphilis, or genital warts. (Hermione really hoped it was warts. Or maybe all of the above. But definitely warts.) And she... and she...

And she was what Blaise wanted. That was what hurt the most. If that was the kind of woman who got Blaise to bring her home to shag, then Hermione figured she might as well throw in the towel now and give up her feelings for him, once and for all. She wasn't the type to give up easily, especially where her heart was concerned, but she could never be like that witch. Not for anything. Not even for Blaise. If that was what Blaise wanted in a woman, then that meant that he would never, ever want her, and the sooner she got used to the idea, the better for everyone concerned.

With a moan of mingled pain and resignation, Hermione collapsed on her bed and wiggled her way out of her stockings before slipping her legs under the covers. She knew that she should get back up immediately. Years of experience (and living with female housemates) had taught her that unless she took care of it right away, her hair would be an absolute bird's nest by morning, and she'd have to take her dress in to be (expensively) professionally cleaned before it could be worn again. She knew these things, yes... but she couldn't quite bring herself to care. It would be worth the ridiculously high fee to get her dress cleaned. It would even be worth the hour she would have to spend detangling her hair if it meant that she wasn't required to do anything right at that moment other than curl up into a ball under the blankets, ignore the rest of the world, and breathe. She could handle breathing.

So she stayed precisely where she was on the bed, and waited for oblivion to come. Bone-crushing despair always tired her out and she knew that it shouldn't take her long to fall asleep. She managed a half-smile when a warm, furry weight curled up against her back and she felt the steady purr vibrate through her body. She sighed softly as she reached behind her to awkwardly pet Crookshanks. Grateful that there was at least one male in her life that she truly could count on, she rolled over and let the cat curl into her stomach. Tears spilled down her cheeks and dripped into Crookshanks' fur as she poured out her heart and all her heartbreaking thoughts and feelings on the subject of Blaise Zabini. Crookshanks listened patiently until she was done before settling in to her mattress and falling asleep. Taking her cue from him, she let her eyes drift closed. Crookshanks and her silencing spell would protect her, and once she let herself fall asleep, she wouldn't have to think about any of it any more.

She was totally unaware of the activity that took place outside of her door. The silencing charm meant that she didn't hear movement, or conversation, or the dark haired man pacing outside her door. She slept peacefully and obliviously and wasn't aware of anything until she woke up the next morning.

She expected to feel miserable when she woke up. To her surprise, she discovered that she felt fairly alright. A bit headachey and dehydrated, of course, but no real problems outside of that. Oh, she _looked_ awful, to be sure. Her dress was a wrinkled mess, her hair looked like _two_ birds with a running feud and destructive tendencies had nested inside it, and she was liberally sprinkled with cat hair but other than that... Well, other than that, she felt rather fine. A thousand clichés sprang to mind that her father always used to say, things about how "it's always darkest before the dawn," and "hope cometh in the morning" and that sleep "knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care." Hermione was, truthfully, rather fond of clichés, especially when they proved true, as in this case. A good night's sleep had made all the difference in the world.

Hermione was simply too stubborn to allow anything to break her spirit, or force her to wallow in misery for _too_ long. A good night's sleep was all it took to restore her usual optimism and determination. She was ready to face the world, ready to face Blaise, ready even, with her classic Gryffindor bravery and resolve, to face that idiotic little tramp Blaise had slept with (especially if she could manage to convince the numbskull to go and play in traffic). With her 'courageous' face firmly fixed in place, she changed out of her dress into a loose set of yoga pants and a tank top and charged boldly out of her bedroom door...

... where she immediately fell over Blaise, fast asleep in her doorway.


	6. Section 6

See part one for disclaimers.

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Section 6:

Blaise hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it had been a rather exhausting night. Fortunately, Kelly (he had found her name on her identification when searching for her address in her handbag) was disposed of easily enough. Blaise's gifts lay more in stealth and cunning than in wand work, but there was no such thing as a Slytherin spy worth his salt who didn't know how to cast a strong stunning spell and a successful Obliviate. He had her cleaned, dressed, and completely unconscious in a bit under twenty minutes, just in time to apparate her to her apartment and deliver her to her roommate, the nurse, promptly at four in the morning when she arrived home from her shift.

Blaise played his role perfectly, explaining that Kelly had passed out after having a few too many drinks at the pub, and that he had taken the liberty of making sure she got home safely. The witch even thanked him for being such a gentleman as she mobilicorpused her snoring roommate into the flat. When Kelly woke in the morning, she would, at most, remember meeting the famous Blaise Zabini and having a few too many drinks with him. After that, her memory would go blank.

Arriving back home, the first order of business was a quick shower. He ached to talk to Hermione, but he needed to wash away the traces of that damnable perfume first. Just because he didn't stand a chance with her didn't mean that he wanted to go into Hermione's room smelling like a cheap whore. But once he had showered and put on clean clothes and brushed his teeth and combed his hair and changed his shirt a few times and changed the sheets on his bed and started contemplating whether now would be a good time to organize the books in his bookcase, he realized that he had fallen into stalling tactics. Yes, he wanted to talk to Hermione. More than anything in the world, he wanted to talk to Hermione. He wanted to find out what was wrong, and comfort her, and make it better, and take care of her and protect her and love her until the end of time... And that was the problem.

For the first time in his life, so far as he could remember, he was embarrassed. Yet another new emotion that he had learned from knowing Hermione, he realized with a rueful smile. In his former, closed-off life, he had never been embarrassed because there was no one whose opinion he valued highly enough to worry what they thought of him. But he was embarrassed enough now to make up for the lack of it in all the years before. He was ashamed to face Hermione after the way that he had behaved. No wonder she didn't love him. Who could love someone who was so inconsiderate to their friends? How could he ask her to trust him with her heart when he had proven so adeptly that he could barely be trusted with her friendship?

She was always there for him. Even in the very beginning when she barely knew him and had absolutely no reason to trust him, she had still been there, to warn him not to eat anything from Fred or George, to explain to him the ridiculously complicated hierarchy involved in selecting a video for an evening in, to show him where they hid the Chocolate Frogs from Ron, or to explain what to do when the taps made that funny clanking noise when he turned on the hot water.

He'd never forget the first mission he performed for the Order. It had been routine for him, barely dangerous at all for a spy of his skills, but it had placed him in potentially hazardous territory for a considerable period of time. When he finally returned back to Grimmauld Place at three o'clock in the morning, successful and unscathed but dirty and exhausted, Hermione had been there waiting for him with a tired look on her face but a warm smile of welcome and a hot pot of tea. He lost count of the number of times after that when he found the energy to persevere with an assignment by remembering that when he returned safely, Hermione would be waiting for him with a pot of tea and a smile just for him to show him that she was happy that he returned, and that she'd thought of him while he was gone. He couldn't imagine anyone being a better friend than Hermione was to him.

And he, on the other hand, was such a crappy friend that the girl had to literally break down in _tears_ before he could be brought to notice. And even though it hurt worse than any hex to hear Hermione cry, it hurt even more to know that it took her tears for him to notice that something was wrong. He should have noticed that she was upset before that, and been there for her, just like she was always there for him. When he had taken Kelly over to say goodnight to the gang before heading back to Grimmauld Place, Luna had told him that Hermione had left earlier and that her mouth had been bleeding. Luna had rambled on something about vampire beetles, but Blaise knew the truth. Hermione chewed on her lip when she was upset. She did it all the time. He could, however, count on one hand the number of times he had seen her bite down hard enough to draw blood. Hermione's mouth had been bleeding when she left the bar earlier. She'd been upset. And he'd been too busy reeling in a Hermione look-a-like shag toy to stop and notice.

Merlin only knew what Hermione thought of him now. He knew she never fully approved of his love-them-and-leave-them lifestyle, but he'd never let it get in the way of his friendships before. And of all nights to be ruled by his libido, he had chosen this night, when Hermione was upset, and his shag of the night had the IQ of a rabbit. He'd blown Hermione off for an _idiot_ and he was darn near ashamed to look himself in the mirror, much less face Hermione. He'd fucked up royally so far tonight, and if his track record didn't get better, he just might end up ruining the first, best friendship he had ever found, not to mention torching any chance he might ever have of someday earning her love. He knew, of course, that Hermione deserved someone a dozen times over better than he could ever be, both as a lover and as a friend, but he... he just didn't want to think of what his life would be like without her in it.

Which meant that he needed to get his embarrassment under control and be the friend that she needed him to be. He needed to leave his room, (which he did,) he needed to walk down the hall, (which he did,) he needed to stand in front of Hermione's door, (which he did,) and he needed to knock on it, (which he... didn't). He stood in front of her door with his hand in midair, poised to knock, and wondered what on earth he was going to say when she opened the door. Should he immediately apologize for not noticing she was upset earlier? Or should he start by asking what was wrong? Would she want to know why he had been too distracted earlier to pay attention to her? What would she do if he admitted the truth? He just couldn't bring himself to knock. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, simply staring at the door and at his fist and wondering why it was so difficult to bring one up against the other when he was distracted by a crashing sound coming from the front entranceway of the house.

"S'alright!" a familiar slurred, drunken voice announced, the voice carrying loudly up the stairs. "M'fine."

Blaise bit back a chuckle. Potter was an absolute disaster when he was drunk. The boy had the tolerance of a house-elf piled on top of his complete inability to think clearly after ten in the evening.

A rumpled head of black hair appeared mounting the stairs and soon Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived came into view, looking very much like a sleepy, drunken porcupine with all his clothes askew and his hair sticking out in three hundred and sixty different directions. Harry's confusion was readily apparent as he looked at Blaise.

"What're you doing here?" he slurred.

"I live here, Potter," Blaise retorted. "I have for years, remember?"

"Thought you went home with a girl," Harry mumbled.

Blaise sighed. "I did. Didn't end well."

"So you figured that since the copy didn't work for you, you might as well have a go at the real thing?"

"I— What— No! I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I'm not stupid, Blaise. I'm just drunk. Wasted. Sloshed. Pissed. Arseholed. Rat-arsed. Shit-faced. Bladdered. Plas—"

"Alright!" Blaise cut him off. "I get the point. You're drunk."

"Drunk, yes," Harry agreed, nodding until the head-bobbing movement nearly made him fall over. "Quite drunk. But not stupid. You're in love with Hermione."

"I... how did you know?"

Harry shrugged. "Fancied her m'self, once. I recognize the signs."

"So, what did you do about it?" Blaise asked tentatively.

"Shagged every girl I could find who looked like her until I completely cocked up any chance of being with her," Harry answered glibly. "No, wait a tic, that wasn't me; that was you!" Harry laughed drunkenly at his own joke for a few minutes until he realized that Blaise wasn't laughing with him. "Eh, lighten up, mate. No bloody sense of humor, these Slytherins."

When Blaise still didn't respond, Harry finally answered the question. "I told her, of course. And she hugged me hard and told me that if she didn't already have feelings for someone else, she'd be all over me. Then she told me that she had caught Padma looking my way. The rest is history."

Blaise nodded distractedly. Hermione liked someone else? Who? Did he know him? Did she still like him? Could he kill him? Would Hermione be angry with him if he quietly and efficiently disposed of her love interest? Would he stand a chance if he was able to get the prick out of the way? Could he—

"You should tell her."

"Do—" Blaise's voice caught in his throat and he cleared it impatiently. Now, of all times, was not the time to turn into a Hufflepuff. He had more self-possession than this, damn it! He could manage to choke out a simple question without making a fool of himself for Merlin's sake. "Do you think I stand a chance?"

What little craftiness Potter possessed completely fled him when he was drunk, and Blaise knew for certain that he would get an honest answer.

"I don't know," Harry said, speaking through a yawn. "I never could understand girls. Not even Padma, unless Hermione's there to explain her." Harry shook his head which nearly caused him to fall over. "Girls are nutters. They don't make any sense. 'Specially when it comes to blokes. 'Specially when it comes to _Hermione_ and blokes. I may be her best friend, but every one of her relationships has caught me completely..." he staggered into a wall, apologized to it absently, and seated himself in a tumbled heap on the floor, "... off-guard. But you should still tell her."

"But what if she doesn't feel the same way? What if she tells me that she'll _never_ feel the same way and that she could never be in love with me?"

"Then she'll never speak to you again, demand that you move out, burn everything she owns that reminds her of you and have her memories of you obliviated," Harry stated, very seriously. That is to say, he appeared very serious while he said it, and for about two seconds afterwards, until he dissolved into helpless giggles at the gobsmacked look on Blaise's face.

"Very funny, Potter," Blaise grumbled. "How _lucky_ I am to have you to turn to in my time of need."

Harry's giggles turned into snorts. "All you _need_, mate, is a good kick in the arse. This is Hermione we're talking about! She loves you. Now, I haven't the foggiest idea if she's _in_ love with you, but I know that she cares about you, and nothing you confess will ever change that. I'm seeing double and even I can see that."

"I just don't want to do anything to jeopardize our friendship," Blaise said softly.

"Bollocks," Harry replied, surprisingly crisply for someone with slurred speech. "She'll always be your friend. You know that. But if you want to take the shot at making her something more, then you'd best do something about it because it's not going to happen on its own." Carefully, he staggered to his feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll head to my room and wank off to Padma's picture."

Blaise grimaced in distaste at the mental picture, but helped turn Harry in the proper direction for his bedroom and kept a careful eye on him as he staggered down the hallway. When Harry finally entered his room and shut the door behind him, Blaise inhaled deeply, held his breath, turned to face Hermione's door, and knocked.

Silence. Not just silence in response to the knock, but silence _from_ the knock as well. His knuckles rapping against the door made absolutely no sound at all. Biting his lip in confusion, Blaise raised his hand to knock again. Silence. He knocked harder. Still silent. He banged his fist against the wall, hard enough to bruise his hand, and it didn't make so much as a sound. Curiouser and curiouser. Pulling his wand out of his pocket, he cast a careful revealing charm on the door, and his eyes widened in shock at what he saw. Hermione had managed to cast a silencing spell so powerful, it had penetrated through to the other side of the walls. Not only would no sound from the hallway enter the room, no sound would even _exist_ within the depth of the four walls surrounding the room. In spite of himself, Blaise smiled admiringly at the magnificent power and focus of the girl that he adored. The smile faded as the situation returned to him.

He could parade a brass band through the hallway and Hermione wouldn't hear it until she either took off the silencing spell or opened her door. And that meant that getting her to open the door and hold a conversation with him was out of the question. Blast. And right when he'd finally made up his mind, too. Seating himself on the floor, he leaned his head back against Hermione's door. He may not be a brave Gryffindor, but he was every inch a stubborn Slytherin. Now that he had finally decided to talk things out with her, he wasn't going anywhere until he had his chance. And that was precisely where he stayed, until Hermione's opened her door the next morning.


	7. Section 7

See part one for disclaimers.

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Section 7:

"Blaise!" she squealed, panicking immediately. What had she been _thinking_ putting a silencing charm on her room like that? Had Blaise fallen? Was he hurt? Was he unconscious? Was he _alive_? Crouching down on the floor next to him, she rolled him over on his back and breathed a sigh of relief when she noticed that he was still breathing and appeared uninjured. Had he just been knocked out? Dashing back into her room, she grabbed her wand from the bedside table, planning to cast an Enervate, but her hands were shaking with nervousness and she managed instead to poke him in the forehead with her wand.

It worked just as well as an Enervate would have. Blaise's eyes blinked open and, after a few seconds, managed to focus on Hermione. "Morning, 'Mione," he mumbled before rolling over to go back to sleep.

Hermione's fear and worry melted into aggravation. "Blaise Zabini, _what_ do you think you're doing?"

"Talk later," he moaned. "Sleep now."

"Oh, _honestly_!" she huffed, climbing over his body to get into the hallway. Blaise was absolutely useless before his first cup of coffee in the morning but it hardly seemed fair that she would have to wait for the coffee to percolate before she could find out what, exactly, he was doing camped out in front of her bedroom door. Ten minutes later, she returned with a mug of coffee, black with three sugars, just the way that Blaise liked it. (She was angry with him, but not _that_ angry.)

Dropping down to kneel on the floor next to him, she held the coffee mug under his nose, noticing with satisfaction the way the familiar smell of the coffee made him stir. His eyes stayed closed, but his hand groped forward, searching for the source of the smell. She shivered when his fingers brushed against her arm, trailing down to her wrist and finally her fingers to remove the mug from her hand, but kept her grip steady until she could transfer the mug into his hand. With his eyes still closed, he propped himself up slightly on his elbow and raised the mug to his lips.

Hermione tried not to squirm as she watched him. No matter how sexy he looked all rumpled and half asleep and no matter how delicious he sounded when he moaned in appreciation at the taste of the coffee, she was still annoyed with him for a whole _list_ of reasons, and she was growing quite impatient to know why she found him asleep in front of her door.

Then, of course, those crystal blue eyes blinked open and he gave her a sleepy smile, making it physically impossible for her to stay annoyed with him any longer. With a sigh, she rose to her feet. "I'll go make breakfast," she offered. "Why don't you do wash up?" Blaise nodded around a massive yawn and continued to sip at his coffee. Knowing that he would be worthless for movement, much less conversation, until he finished his cup of coffee, she headed down to the kitchen. A minute or two later, she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs before Blaise stepped into the kitchen to join her.

"I was thinking an omelet might be nice," she stated with forced cheerfulness. "Do you know if your..." What should she call the girl, Hermione wondered. His one-night stand? His brain-damaged tramp with experience shagging on stairs? His lover? Maybe even (perish the thought) his girlfriend? "...friend would object to bacon and cheddar?"

"My friend?" Blaise repeated, confused. "Oh, you mean Kelly? I took her home ages ago. She didn't stay all night." He saw no reason to bring up that he had stunned, obliviated, and mobilicorpused the girl to get her home. Hermione tended to get a bit temperamental when he used Slytherin tactics like that on people, and he didn't want to upset her.

"All the more for us, then!" Hermione replied brightly, mentally cursing a list of epitaphs her closest friends would have been shocked to discover she even knew. Saw her home, did he? No doubt, he walked her all the way to her door, wanting to spend every moment possible with her. Bitch. Tears sprang into her eyes despite her best efforts, and she hastily grabbed an onion out of the vegetable tray and began chopping it. Everyone knew that onions made her cry. It was a perfectly normal, chemical reaction, and it had nothing to do with the newest stress fracture Blaise had caused in her heart.

"Here, let me," a voice murmured softly in her ear, making her shiver in spite of herself as Blaise placed his hands on her shoulders and gently but firmly moved her to the side so he could take over chopping the onions, himself. Desperate for something to keep her hands occupied, Hermione broke a few eggs into a bowl and began beating them energetically. She was thwarted once again by those same warm hands closing on her shoulders yet again, this time leading her away from the counter to sit at the kitchen table.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"Just onions," Hermione replied, swiping at her eyes. "You know that they always make me cry."

"And were you chopping onions last night?" Blaise countered.

Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. "But... but I cast a silencing charm!" This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because when she had cried herself to sleep, she hadn't restricted herself to wordless moans. Confident in the strength of her silencing charm, she had sobbed out her broken heart to Crookshanks, asking her furry companion over and over again why Blaise couldn't want her back. If Blaise had been able to hear her crying, then he must have heard the rest, as well.

All the color drained out of her face as the pieces came together. She had been sure that she cast a sound barrier that would keep sound from going _out_ just as thoroughly as it would keep sound from coming in, but if she was wrong... if she was wrong, then Blaise must have been able to hear her from the hallway, even though she hadn't been able to hear him. Hermione could picture it all so clearly. Blaise came up the stairs with his tramp and heard her voice through the door, saying, no _sobbing_ his name. The tramp probably heard it as well. That must have been why she didn't stay the night. Hermione knew that Blaise was a reliable friend; even though he didn't want her, he still wouldn't want her embarrassed in front of his date. So he took the brain-dead trollop home, and then returned to his post outside her door.

He heard her say everything: everything about how she felt for him and how badly she wanted him and how it hurt when he wanted every girl in the world who wasn't her. He heard her cry herself to sleep over her broken heart for him. Knowing him, he probably intended never to mention it to her and let her keep her pride. But he had been tired (from all the shagging, a malicious voice in her head reminded her,) and after a while of leaning against the door, he had fallen asleep. Once she tripped over him that morning, he knew there was no way he could pretend that it hadn't happened, so he was going to have 'the talk' with her now and let her down easy.

She cringed at the thought of the conversation to come. He'd tell her he was 'flattered' that she felt so strongly about him, and that he was sure that one day she'd find the right person for her, someone who could 'appreciate' her. He say that he hoped this wouldn't affect their friendship because her friendship was 'so important' to him. If she was exceptionally unlucky or fate was just exceptionally cruel, he might even try to fix her up with someone else. She shuddered at the thought. No. She wouldn't let that happen. She wouldn't let _any_ of that happen. If Blaise wanted to have 'the talk' then fine, they'd talk, but it would be on her own terms.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you would listen at keyholes," Hermione stated, staring down at her hands that kept twisting and untwisting a napkin. "It was part of your training for a long time, and I know you hate it when people keep secrets from you." Blaise made a sound as if to interrupt, but Hermione dared to glance up into his eyes for just a moment, long enough to say, "Please, let me finish, and then you can have your say. Please, Blaise?" He nodded his agreement and she dropped her eyes back to her hands, and continued.

"Please believe me when I say that I _never_ intended for you to hear anything that you heard last night. And if Kelly overheard any of it," Hermione grimaced at the thought, "please apologize to her for me, as well. I know some of the things I said about her were harsh and unfair. Even at the time, I knew I didn't know her well enough to judge, but it was... difficult seeing you with her and I needed to blow off some steam, and I figured that venting to Crookshanks was harmless enough. I don't want you; _either_ of you; to think I'm some emotionally distraught madwoman or that I'm having some kind of nervous breakdown."

Hermione looked down at the shredded napkin in her hand and realized that it was not, perhaps, the best proof of her stable state of mind. Dropping the napkin hastily, she twisted her hands together to keep them still. "Just because I have feelings for you, doesn't mean that anything has to change, with our friendship or with anything else. You don't need to 'comfort' me or 'console' me or 'let me down easy.' I never had any expectation that you would ever feel about me the way that I feel about you. I certainly can't blame you for being attracted to witches who are far more beautiful and glamorous than I could ever hope to be. I promise, I won't behave any differently, and I don't have any expectations that you'll change anything, either. In fact, the very best, the very _kindest_ thing that you can do for me, as your friend, is to let this go and try to forget it. Can you do that for me, Blaise? Can you do that?"

Blaise was suddenly certain that he knew exactly how Alice felt when she fell down the rabbit hole. Suddenly, up was down and black was white and everything that he understood to be true was contradicted and it was not painful or strange or unpleasant at all, but stupendously wonderful instead. He liked the rabbit hole, he decided. And just because his world as he knew it had just gone topsy turvy didn't mean that he didn't enjoy the change.

To his credit, let it be said that he did try to correct Hermione when she jumped to the conclusion that her silencing charm had been insufficient and that he had heard her crying in her room. He had tried to interrupt, but she had told him to let her finish what she needed to say and he, having no idea what was coming, had agreed.

He'd give five years off his life for a transcript of what exactly she had said to that cat of hers in her room the previous night, but the way she explained was enough to give him the gist of it, and it was more than enough, more than he had ever hoped. She had been crying over him. As much as he hated the thought of ever being the cause of her pain, he must admit that a sizeable part of him rejoiced at the knowledge. She cried over him because she wanted him and thought she couldn't have him. She cried because it hurt her not to be with him, just like it hurt him not to be with her. She cried because she... did she? She hadn't said she did, and he needed to know. Steeling up all of his courage, Blaise looked Hermione straight in the eye and spoke.

"I just have one question, Hermione. Will you answer it for me?" Head hanging in shame, Hermione nodded. "Do you love me?"

Hermione's head shot up, the look on her face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. She was clearly stunned that someone she considered to be a friend would drag out her humiliation to such an extent, and Blaise could tell that she wanted to refuse to answer. He watched, more than a little amazed, as Gryffindor bravery and honesty won out in the end. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, looking him straight in the eye.

"Yes," she answered bluntly.

Blaise's face broke into an irrepressible, beaming smile. "Good," he breathed before crossing over to her in what was certainly far less than a second, grabbing hold of her to yank her into his arms and seal her lips with his. For a moment, Hermione allowed herself to melt into his arms. His mouth was warm and tasted like coffee with too much sugar. She didn't even like the taste of coffee, but on him, it was delicious. Everything about him was delicious from the warm softness of his lips to the smooth movements of his tongue to the leashed strength of his arms wrapped around her waist, aligning her body with his. He smelled good and tasted good and dear god in heaven, he felt good. Hermione took a moment to relish her own fall down the rabbit hole before common sense reasserted itself and she forced her mouth away from the magnetic pull of his.

"Blaise," she gasped out breathlessly, "what... what is this? What's going on?"

"This is me loving you," he whispered in her ear, planting a series of soft, wet kisses just below it, making her shiver. "This is me loving you so much..."

"Just because of last night?" she managed to ask, doing an admirable job of forming complete sentences, considering the way her entire body was trembling with pleasure.

"I've loved you for so long," Blaise answered, "but it wasn't until last night that I let myself believe that I stood a chance. That's why I camped out at your door."

It was a lie, of course, but Blaise vowed to himself as he pulled her mouth back to his that she would never know that. He'd certainly never tell her. She'd be furious with him for letting her confess her feelings over the kitchen table in the misguided belief that he knew them already, and the absolute last thing he wanted was for her to be furious at him. If she was angry, she probably wouldn't let him kiss her again, and great Merlin's ghost, he didn't think he could live if he couldn't keep kissing her. The lie didn't weigh too heavily on his conscience. After all, if he had had any idea that she loved him, he would have camped out on her doorstep and forced her to admit it ages ago.

Hermione apparently approved of the lie because she started participating much more actively in the kiss. When her hands snaked between their bodies to rub his crotch, his knees went weak and he stumbled back into one of the kitchen chairs. Hermione gave him a wicked grin before climbing onto his lap, straddling him so that she could position her hips perfectly to rub against his while continuing the kiss him into a hopelessly-in-love puddle of mush.

Blaise slid his hand up the back of her tank top and they both moaned at his touch against her bare skin. It felt like heaven, and they both knew that if they went much further, they'd pass the point of no return.

"Is this okay?" Blaise asked nervously, needing reassurance that she wanted this as badly as he did. After all his time spent pursuing Hermione look-a-likes, it was hard to believe that he actually had the chance to have her. He wasn't about to bollux it up by pushing her too fast.

"Okay?" Hermione repeated dazedly, arching back into his touch. "Yes. This is okay. More than okay."

"You like it, then?" he questioned hopefully.

Slowly coming out of her Blaise-induced haze, Hermione's lips curled up in a smile. "I feel like I've been struck by lightning."

Still uncertain, Blaise smiled back at her nervously. "Do you think you might like to be struck by Lightning some more?"

"Oh yes," she answered, her grin growing wider as she deliberately ground her hips down against his. "I'd love to be struck by Lightning again, and again, and again, and ag—" She was cut off by Blaise's lips pressed against hers and her tongue soon grew far too occupied in playing with his to object to the interruption.

She whimpered when Blaise pulled away, and tried to pull him back in, but he slid both of his hands into her hair, holding her in place so he could look right at her face when he spoke at last.

"I love you, Hermione Granger," he whispered.

"I love you, Blaise Zabini," she answered, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek. "As I have since I was sixteen years old." Blaise's eyes widened in surprise and Hermione's fingers slipped from his cheek to his lips to keep him from speaking. "We'll discuss that later, love," she promised. "For now, I'm ready for Lightning to strike some more."

THE END


End file.
